Lucky Waterfall Owl Stars

Pumped up the tires for another off-road excursion into the wilds of Joaquin Miller Park last Sunday. Partly cloudy skies with plenty of sun presented amiable weather, but rain had pounded the area Saturday night, so this park was about the only one that I trusted to be dry enough for trouble-free riding. Joaquin Miller drains fast and it's mud doesn't stick bad, besides, at this time of year exposed sandstone dominates the steep sections. A dire lone wolf I howled down the opening stretch, glad for the redwoods and blue skies. Right away I noticed that the waterfalls were about as full as I'd ever seen them, plenty loud. I love that phenomenon where the volume of white water seems to increase in steps, so I carried that love to where it was headed and laid uncomfortably on the mossy rocks by the crashing agua, just to listen, awesome. Sometime around "good smell curve", so named for the time Quintan smelled some nostalgia charged "hot day in the woods odor" and we spent five minutes rooting and digging and sniffing around there, I noticed that my rear shock was low on air (bottoming out). I figured that I'd test it on Cinderella, and then see if I could make more loops without causing damage (forgot the shock pump). Cinderella laid herself out in her usual breathtaking fashion, but when I forgot about the low air and hit one of her revered jumps, the severe bottoming out convinced me to head back after her. Ate it up, didn't crash but got loose, got that life affirming adrenaline quiver with an unbecoming whoop or two at the end. Down at the bottom of the canyon, where the creek runs eternal, the sound of waterfalls got real big, again causing me to stop. This time it come from four sides, upstream, downstream, my side of the canyon, and the far side, soooo tight. The meadows were full of those little white mini-daisy flowers I used to like to put in my beard, and I kept expecting to see the Herbal Essence shampoo model bathing in the rocky pools. When I got to the top of the Bitch (Sunset Trail) an owl started hooting, and right then I realized that I'd been waiting for that sound for months, missing it, and there it rang so clear. Let me count those lucky stars just one more time. Gratitude opens so many mental doors.

April #1 For Suicide

KCBS spouted with an interesting report this morning, for once, about how more folks commit suicide in April than any other month. Yes they knew, we all thought a winter month would boast that honor. The theory proferred is that people are too depressed in winter, but get a little vernal pep that gets the job done. Same reason anti-depressants sometimes "cause" suicide, they say. I've had a keen interest in the subject since childhood due to my mother regularly threatening to off herself over the years, but never heard about April. I found suicide somewhat of a fear catch-22. You see, my tried and true method for overcoming fear of murder and monsters was to become the murderer or monster in my mind, pump up my prey drive, but when the victim is the aggressor that plan falls flat. Now, it would make sense that attempting suicide would be a felony, punishable by jail time, but the legal system doesn't know what to make of it either. They said on the report that it's the 3rd leading cause of death for males 18-45, killing more than homicides; amazing. Of course, being a little suicidal is a good thing, keeps you from putting your goggles on, going to bed, and waiting to die of doorknob germs. Best in moderation, like insanity. Much power in living close to death and craziness, but the ability to turn it off when it gets uppity is the key. Warriors need that power, and the aspiration and vision of myself as a spiritual warrior was cultivated to a high degree at the church I attended. They had some story about a guy flipping out his enemies by stabbing himself with his own sword, you know, just to show he was a crazy asshole whose surrender could not be rationally calculated or expected. Which I believe is the point of Eminem's line: "Mentally ill in Amityville, don't think that I won't, God damn it I will." Chief Seattle has a whole spiel about it too, in Chief Seattle Speaks; the warriors would say hoka hey (today is a good day to die) each day upon waking. And then there's that Angel vampire show, annoying but true. What was that my biking buddies taught me? Oh yeah, all fun and games until someone gets hurt, then it's hilarious. Works for skating too. Sharing nice meals and conversation is fine, but risking life & limb together forms another level of spirit affirming bond. See, we don't need a draft to get soldiers, just acceptance and $ for college. Now that I've mastered slow smiling I'm trying slow scowling, much more painful, but almost as fun. In Natural Born Killers, after Mickey kills the good Indian and all the rattlesnakes come, he gets into the Indian's old pick-up and has this flash of his irate father behind the wheel of a similar old truck, eyes wild with rage, vitriolic sweat and spit flying - that's the look I shoot for. Must take care or my face will stay like that.

Childhood Revisits

Looking at his mother's mother's father, who now goes by Tata. Fascination without prompting, I found him here in the morning. When I imagine his thought process my own childhood revisits me, memories long forgotten flash past, open closed doors. Ancestral memories seep out of bones, across electric storms over blood-red seas. 

Shave Head Instead

Oh screw budgeting my time, too much to do anyway, just carpe diem. Shaved my head for the first day of spring, feels alive in the wind. One's scalp is quite sensitive under "all that" hair. Back in "the day" my buddy Andre and I took a jaunt to the Berzerkeley Rose Garden with our matching fresh-shaved heads. We spent quite a while sniffing and feeling the various roses with our silky soft heads (we were both in the "rabbit fur" stage), laughing and carrying on down there at the bottom where the trees look like extras in a scary movie. This one big Georgia Peach was the shiznits, except for the spiders and ants. Everyone should shave their head at least once, just to feel all the stuff. It makes a big difference to bust out the shaving cream and go for pure skin too. That way, when you go to bed that night your head sticks to the pillow, you can tell the difference between linen, satin, or felt like never before, and also palpate the difference in hair length over a period of an hour or so. Psychic energy gets through better too, of course, so it's best to surround oneself with supportive people, especially if you're female since hair is the law for women in the prevalent death-culture. When I was 16 I convince my mom to shave her head for her 40th birthday. Some repressed lipstick & nylon wearing hag that worked at the bar in Occidental asked her why she did it, to which my mom replied "for fun", to which the old sourpuss barked back "You're sick", but she meant it nasty, full of vitriol, saying what the other chickenshit conformists were thinking. Some people will treat you the same with no hair, others not so, very illustrative of prejudice and insecurities. On my drive from San Jose to SF today I had the sunroof open and felt the coolness of the spring breeze just a might more than I wanted, so I reached for a red corduroye cap I had sitting on the dash. The sun had heated it just so, and the warm softness of that foam rubber lined cap was beyond compare, which is what made me think of writing about all these bald sensations.

Budget my Hours, Simple

Realizing that everything falls laughing through the cavernous cracks in my organization, I have reasoned out that scheduling my weeks down to the 1/2 hour has become dire for me. Hard because I've always viewed such activities with disdain. I only have to do it if I ever want to excercise or meditate again, or feel good about my workload versus work product. Thought I was getting used to 4 hours of sleep/night, but my memory flew the coup two weeks into this most recent work/catatonia bender, as best I can recall. Reminiscent of how I felt after getting knocked out while being mugged in SF - wonder, fear, and a whole lot of unanswered questions I become more selective about asking. Dementia focus training, bueno no. I know what some of you are thinking - go to bed and stop typing. I feel that too, but my soul aches for expression and a written record to consult, so, so, so yes I think I will attempt sleep after setting my worry people about some tasks. The worry people are wee dolls that one can assign tasks to be accomplished during one's sleep.

Equinox take me away

Just sitting here practicing gnashing my teeth and developing general ill will when I caught the equinox slipping into the room. Take me to Stonehenge to catch a frosty beard chill mind melding with the rocks waiting for dawn. Starting to think that this world masquerades, a figment of my imagination, drifting willy nilly out into the hurricane green sea. Anxiety ridden work dreams plague my sleep. Billie Holiday sings "...comes a nightmare you can always stay awake.", which is barely an option. I wake up and tell myself "dream of being in the mountains with my friends", or somesuch thing, which usually works for awhile, but pretty soon it's endless checking and rechecking work crap, not really sleeping at all. Time for a Pagan equinox ritual and some good old fashioned meditation. Honor the four directions, the fecund nature of the season, the power of the longer sun, let go of winter tools, pick up vernal instruments. We've had some sunny but cool days lately, and I keep thinking of the Bradbury[?] story where the Mexican bums all sit around each morning waiting for the warmth of the sun. When the sun comes they hold out their fingernails to soak up the anti-numbness, and just cause it feels so good there in the digital extremities after a long cold night. I see myself in outer space, fingernails huge and thrust in front of me as I hurtle towards the sun, starting to catch fire. Such a simple but hard to beat pleasure, this fingernail warming indulgence. The boy knows all about it of course. He insisted on running around on the deck in 49 degree weather in his underwear the other day. It seemed crazy to me, but I took off my shirt and joined him soaking up the heat off the redwood deck. I said "Oh, the deck is warm". He gave me a knowing look and replied happily "The deck is warm".

The Ghost Dog exudes loneliness & neglect. The wife had a dream a couple years ago that Ghost Dog looked at her once sadly from the doorway to the garage, and then went to lie down and die. Those are the kind of dreams that come true. More to this story than I will write here, but those concrete workers must have been in touch, maybe more in touch than me.

Harvest Moon 2005

The sedan exited the tunnel, middle of October, a couple hours before sunrise.
Eyes adjusted, two sweeping curves later gazed upon the Harvest Moon�s reflection
on the ship trails east of the Golden Gate.
Swaths of water less salty than the rest, therefore lacking the friction to feel the breeze, stretched and twisted, glassy paths on a textured bay.
Currents had given life to the trails, formed them into s curves.
The world shone silver and it was catching. The moonlight sparked my mind,
an awareness of the Monday morning world around me spread down my spine,
along my leg bones, out through every toe, toes turned into colorful spotlights,
danced like fire hoses with no tenders.
The trees to either side of the highway let me know they felt it too, and the crawling creatures in the soil, an electrical cycling usually reserved for the dawn.
Vision sharpened to pierce the surface of the bay,
see the sharks and rays basking, and beyond them,
into the mud below where bones and fossils danced to the Harvest Moon,
suicides and dinosaurs, fish skeletons and diatoms reached out from the darkest depths. The Bay Bridge in the foreground rippled and shivered while the western skyline called to mind Aphrodite reclined and awake.
My October thus shifted.
Lunar inspirations rebuilt me,
from the core of Earth out past the edges of the Milky Way.
I rolled the windows down. The air had no bite but rather a caress,
a tropical essence that had me smelling fruit and sensing nearby tigers,
soft warm and sharp with no malice.
That was when the fur began to grow on my own belly, my palms grew calloused pads, fingernails became sharp and long.
Was I becoming a wolf? Nay, but a wolverine yes,
and how my shifting bones and tendons did ache with the strain.
My blood thickened and eyes shrank, horizons forever shifted.
Gratitude for the present lit my being;
I glanced back at the sedan and saw that my trail of silver footprints lit up the garage.
 

Slobo

To myself, the most interesting parts of the conflicts in Yugoslavia\Bosnia\Serbia\Croatia were the bombing of the Chinese embassy (I'm sure they recall) and the mesmerizing chanting of the crowds shouting "Slobo, Slobo, Slobo" in blizzard weather. I also took a close look at the destruction of the bridges, what with the deep icy water, Eastern European engineering, and overt psychology & economics of such. Anyhow, it sure is an odd looking fish how he died in that cell. That trial was shaping up to look pretty crappy for the red, white, & blue, what with all the war & humanitaran crimes happening here in the U.S. and overseas as we speak. Yes, I'm saying we killed him. Saddam is next, just like on South Park, he'll be crucifix penetrated by the devil in a Texas minute. Take a tip from the fighting Jesus - he didn't get nailed. Everybody's got a due out date anyway, just like those puppies at the pound. What was that movie? Logan's Run? Soylint Green? Trusting karmic law helps ward off depression. Gitmo better bars.

Fantasma: The Ghost Dog

Rounded a bend on 24E today and witnessed that good old Devil Mountain looking snowy and terrible. Every once in awhile I read about some puritanical Christian losers trying to change it's name - guten lucht. The ice seems to run in my veins even as I write, translucent & noisy shards numbing and fracturing away down blood gulch #729. Maybe that's due to the fact I decreased the night time thermostat setting another five degrees. Feeling cold feels good as long you keep a postive mindset, over matter, real banshees wear only short sleeves in the non-mountainous areas of Cali, maybe a brightly dyed wool serape when the fog gets nippy. Just imagine it's hot out and this is the super good AC blasting, so refreshing and good for keeping perishables fresh (that's me). The boy's been asking about the snow a lot lately. Next season he'll be old enough to take the ski lessons I never got while I take the snowboard lessons I never got. Why the hell else do we both have AWD vehicles? Rhetorical of course, unless the answer is "Yes".

Found out one recent morning when they showed up unexpectedly and the dogs weren't kennelized that the team of concrete workers that poured the pad for our new home office had a special name for my big black dog - Fantasma: The Ghost Dog. So proud I about cried. That dog's got soul (and steals souls) for shore, and teeth, and eyes more human than human, like Rob Zombie but better. Tonight when I came home all tired and somewhat sombered out I went to the garage where the Ghost Dog dwells, got down on my knees and just hugged the 120-lb beast. She knew just how to chill, but of course, and felt so soft & warm in the frigid air, on her dirty faded blue rug, on the concrete floor. Lucky me; bless her big black heart.

Had a hard time putting the child to sleep this evening. First he insisted on "Sister's bed", which is his own idea of where his new sister is likely to sleep, actually the guest mattress on the floor that I sleep on each night due to snoring and other considerations. That cuteness won him at least another 10 minutes, and then he must just save the last crap each night until after the final lights out, cause that modus operandi plays itself out real regular. By the time I cleaned all that up my back was too tired to lug him up the stairs again, so various "Go to bed" type cajoling ensued as I loaded my new "Essential Johnny Cash, 1955-1983" discs my brother Matt & his wife gave me into my machine and tried to get back to wage-slaving. He strolled up, picked up the case for disc one, and asked "Who's that?". I told him who and asked if he wanted to hear some. Of course he did, and said "Let's dance" right away when "Hey Porter" started kicking. We were singing the Hey Porter part together from half-way through, both learning together, bloody alchemy. I explained to him that it was a song about trains, porters on trains that is, to which he said with out-of-breath gusto, as soon as it ended "That's a good song". Momma was getting miffed about the hour by then, and I still had a couple hours of work left, but when your toddler invites you to a Johnny Cash dance party at 10PM on a school night I'd advise strict attendance. He couldn't let it end there of course, and quickly found a pencil with one of those purple hairy head things on the eraser end that has eyes and gets crazy hair when you spin it. Very fun, and he didn't even scrawl anything on the wall or try to gouge my eyes. The boy's growing up I tell you.

Less Pigeons Inside Now

Less pigeons inside now that this genius netting has been installed. The down side is the affect it has on my view. The netting has no apparent depth, and so pains my eyes to look at for more than a few seconds. Now the birds have to use the doors like everybody else, which they seem to have no problem with. Back at Memorial Stadium in Berzerkeley they had a pellet gun issuance program going for awhile, until a wounded bird dragged it's blood-soaked feathered self to a empathic looking female worker. Wild life by any other name. They did used to drive us crazy in our SF flat, cooing non-stop outside the bathroom window. I'd just go out and bang on the pipe they were living in and then play loud music, my solution to so many problems. It worked in Panama didn't it? Maybe I should take our president's place; hey, I'm almost of age. After this it'll mostly be stuff I'm too old to do, with the notable exception of cashing out my 401k. Now you know for shore that I am a dreamer lost in the briny mist, clutching a water damaged and coverless King Lear paperback, missing pages stuffed in random forgotten pockets. My mom used to recite long passages of Shakespeare from memory, which I enjoyed because it showcased her anglo-intellectual side, standard knowledge for folks of a certain age, class, and geography. Tristen & I would read long passages up in her Barrington room; fun for a few hours. Wonder if she still has those dusty tomes with the parchment paper. Those inky old rectangles of sacrificial trees could fuel a magic compost heap yet. The Rottie, The Warlock, and the Compost Heap - go ahead and wade on in Aztlan.  

In Our Submarine

Thanks once again to Bryn for his unique depiction of me & my son in our submarine. He started a blog of his own recently, which I'd been lobbying him to do for awhile now. It's the link called Purpose Remover, check it. That Egret link is also his. Pisces season is in full swing if you can't tell, and Bryn's birthday is two days before mine, right around the bend.  

Toddler Raising Quotables

The boy has been coming up with all kinds of wonderful quips lately, so I thought I'd share a few.

The other night he brought me Benjamin Bunny from the Peter Rabbit collection to read. I read the title aloud, "Benjamin Bunny", to which he replied "Benjamin Bunny, by Beatrix Potter". I usually read the author, illustrator, and sometimes the publisher. Guess that he's been listening.

He's taken to saying "Thank you sir" after we help him put on his shoes or pants. We're not sure where he picked up the "sir".

We had an inch of rain today and are in the process of getting another inch tonight. He insisted on wandering around the yard tramping in puddles from when it was quite dusky to when it was true blue night, in the pouring rain, looking for worms. Before it got dark I helped him find one under a stepping stone. After I got soaked I went in. Half an hour later he called me from outside the screen door. I figured that he was ready to come in, but he said, "Come help me find the worms. Where's the worms?"

Greg & Desere watched him while we went to the movies one weekend last month. Desere told me the other night that, round about 10PM they were playing with some figurine type toys, wondering when he'd get tired, when he told them that he wanted to get the owl. They told him that was fine and that he should go get it, figuring that it was in the other room. To their amazment, he unlocked the back door, slid it open, stepped out and screamed at the top of his lungs "Owl, come on, OWL..." for a few minutes, apparently calling the real owl that lives in the oaks past our back fence.

He sings the Cake lyrics "Where's the air, where's the air, too much carbon monoxide for me to bear" quite well. We sing it together in the SUV, ironically.

During a 10+minute phone conversation with my mother yesterday, the longest he's ever had, after pretending to be a tiger, roaring & such, he told her "I'm coming to hurt you".

Today, because our washer & dryer are temporarily out of service, he and I did 13 loads of laundry at the laundromat together. Several fellow launderers helped me, seeing the stress level & all, by feeding him, wiping his hands & face, and letting him hang with their groups. He got his introduction to Otter Pop type popsicles. Real nice folks there in Oakland (57th St. and Adeline, I don't like the one by our house). An amazing day. Camille came and helped for the last half hour or so, a veritable blessing. I found myself fairly drenched with sweat on the way home.

Some Color in The Family Tree

Here you see one of the rarer Gnomes of color at his San Diego residence. Do not let the cobwebs on his lips misguide you - he had plenty of wisdom to convey. The next time you run across one of his brethren I suggest taking a moment to gaze into the ancient, hollow eyes, and say "Hello in there." (yes, out loud). Same goes for gnomes disguised as street crazies. If you catch anyone staring don't mind them. They're just jealous like those kids that used to tease us in grade school. Freak flags do so much more good flying high than moldering in some closet. Still wondering if you are a freak? You're in the right place.  

What A Quarter Can Do

The Machine: Bride of Pin-Bot. That "Pinball Wizard" song has more depth for some of us than others. This lovely lady resides at my clean & friendly San Jose facility, right there in the main lunch room. Demands that I tithe her her dues, just like the devil. Fun too.  

Slow Smiles

I guess you could call me a mood enhancement researcher and developer, in the only the best senses of course; no seventh senses allowed. This morning I found a new one: Slow Smiling. You start with a angry or sad face, and then see how slowly one can come to full smile, or to maniacal laughter if it feels right. I admit that the idea may have been sparked by the Chappelle Show skit where everything is cooler in slow motion. The best part for me is when the faintest glimmer of a smile flashes over the frown face. Muscle control is key. The slower you do it the more the countless nuances of the smiling process reveal themselves. Most things can be improved by slowing them down. When my brothers and I were at the Supperclub we tried to walk together in slow motion all the way from the bar to the dance floor, but it proved quite difficult. We all started laughing after a minute or so, but it was cool as hell for the first thirty or forty seconds.

Later, driving across the Bay Bridge, I practiced another good one - projecting part of your spirit into nearby people and animals to experience their feelings and thoughts. Today I tried a Western Gull. feathers feel much different than hands, and each aspect of wind transmits through particular groups of feathers. Flying over water fully engages and exhilarates - just the kind of mood I prefer. Then I tried what I thought for sure was a full-sized poodle in the backseat of an economy car. The dog was thinking that the view from the bridge was all fine and good, but how it would much rather run outdoors, lope over hills & through dales, maybe cross a creek or two. When I pulled closer I found that the dog was actually a blue-haired human, and so momentarily doubted my spirit projection skills. When I passed them though, I could see the amazingly wrinkled, I'm talking maximum imaginable wrinklage, hunch-backed and beautiful lady leaning forward, speaking alertly, and gesturing towards the Marin Headlands. She wished to lope over hill & dale, maybe cross a creek or three, a kindred soul for shore. Spent half my 12th year year reading "non-fiction" and fiction were-beast books, getting familiar with all this stuff, berserkr.

End of the Dying Season

Mmm hmmmm doooommmm, the Dying Season's reign begins to falter, and still so many people, animals, and plants left living, and so many more recently born. The arctic system coming through now reminds me that it ain't over yet, but the green hills and fruit tree buds think it won't be long. I figure that if the chronically ill make it past February in California they'll probably last until next Winter. The sudden "unexpected" deaths become more likely in Summer of course, Chinese medicine's heart season. These cycles and statistical curves fascinate me, every 24 hours a miniature year. Remember, too much joy is injurious to the heart, especially on Summer afternoons.

When we were in San Diego a couple weeks ago my in-laws gave me a coat. Very dark blue, long, soft, warm, three buttons, made in Romania, the kind more common in the Northeast and Europe. This colder weather gave me the chance to wear it today and I must say that a coat like this really can transform a person. It reminds of a long coat I once purchased at the Berzerkeley flea market during a drunken collegiate spending spree. That one was a black & gray silk-lined wool herring-bone that looked & felt great with a scarf, with bonus action while bicycle riding. I wore it long after the split up the back had started to rip. I have a picture of myself sporting it during a friendly field trip to the waterfall between Monte Rio and Camp Meeker, oozing adventure and broadcasting fancy-free confident essence of fun. A friend borrowed it one cold night, kept it for a few months, and the salty dog arrived home a shadow of rag of a coat. I let it go with all it's adventuring memories. I am realizing this instant that this new blue coat is that old coat reincarnated, super badass. Must find a fitting scarf. This Romanian, dry-clean only coat has charm and charisma, a personality of it's own. Those in-laws they have vision, probably even second sight. More to learn, more veils to lift, as long as the reaper remains on one's left.

Not a player, I just crush a lot

Not to brag or anything, but take a moment to let this crusher of an expression soak in. Zoolander, Mr. Dean, you can retire now, especially you Mr. Dean, being so long dead and all. "Not a player, I just crush a lot." --The CRUSHER.

Ok, maybe I'm projecting a little far into the future and it's an unhealthy point of view, but it's fun and I'm notoriously reckless. Never had a reck to start with, as memory serves.  

Just the Beginning

We had fun with the art of bicycle maintenance last weekend, injury free no less. A friend of mine (Nana) recently broke his finger while showing his son what you should never do when a wheel is spinning, which I almost fell trap to, but the memory of his story surfaced in the nick of time. Hot damn I love that bike; notice the subtle graphics on the bottom. 

Good Old & Crusty Valentine's Day

Believe it or else! Valentine's Day has finally arrived, chock full of the best of times and the worst of times (take your pick). The weather cooperated fairly enough, gorgeous in the morning, blustery in the afternoon, with a wintry nip showing through.

Stopped by Middle Harbor Shoreline on my way back from SF this afternoon. Low tide had exposed a nice little sand beach. The wet granules felt like a sea of leisure through my shoes. The wind had whipped up some pretty nice ankle slappers for the bay. I touched the cheery little succors, just for the salty ritual of it, then got back to work.

Rode Briones last Sunday, Joaquin Miller last Wednesday. Due to the recent precipitation-free weather, trail conditions were excellent (said in the voice of Montgomery Burns). Cleaned Chapparal trail at Joaquin Miller; seemed stone cold easy compared to it's rain-drenched self. The Bitch, unfortunately, cleaned me, and was the source of my only unexpected dismount. There's a tree lined, root-filled, steep curve at Briones that left the tip of my right pinky permanently bent a couple years ago, but I cleaned that nicely too, which always makes me smile. Several mudslides combined with hoofprints made for interesting new aspects to a few of the Briones fireroads, fun by any other name. Still plenty of mud to go around. Mountain bike #1 exudes perpetual filth. The caked soil shown brightly enough for the mother of a newborn that parked behind me at Joaquin Miller to remark that the bicycle looked as if I had fun on it. These little encouragements that strangers bequeath hold special value to me, even if it implies that I should clean my bike more often. I've been training my son to clean it, but he's a little young yet.

Another Winter Dawn Spent Driving

So many hours behind the wheel in this lifetime, boggles my tunnel vision. Drove to San Diego Friday and back yesterday, towing a trailer, aching & braking, passing & slowing watching unabridged sunsets breath rasping last breaths. Slept on the king size bed last night that we drove to get, very kingly. The funny part was that when I first woke up this morning I thought to myself "yeah, this bed really is nice", only to realize that I was on the old guest twin on the floor, having groggily switched beds in the night.

The Big Payback club at the DNA Lounge this Friday 2/10/06 should be extra special. It's a celebration of women in hip-hop. Pam the Funkstress from The Coupe headlines. The late afternoon KFJC DJ talked it up a lot today. Hopefully it won't sell out since I don't plan to buy advance tickets.

Also looking forward to Buckethead at the Great American on the 25th. X at Slim's the same night also vies for attention but seems to be losing ($10 more at a crappier venue).